Monsters Beneath the Bed
by Somniphobia
Summary: Lleh, a serial killer from London, tries desperately to "fix" all the broken people around him. With his arsenal of weapons, he brings horror to the country and the world. Rated M for extreme violence and adult content.


**So this is my first REAL attempt at putting a story up on here. It's actually my first story too! There are quite a few more chapters to come, but for now, I'd like to see how this one goes. I appreciate all criticism :)**

This is completely original. Any similarities to other animes, dramas, etc. are coincidental.

Rated M for violence and adult content.  
Enjoy!

A small wooden chair is seen silhouetted against the dark green chipping paint of the walls. Blood splatters on the walls and ceiling cover the many etchings of people who were once held there. The prisoners. The bad people. In the chair sat an older man. His name was Lawrence. Many people didn't realize it, but Lawrence had a very terrible habit. This habit of his included inappropriately touching younger kids, especially boys.

In short, Lawrence was broken. He was the lowest scum that this Earth had to offer. He needed to be fixed.

Slowly awakening from a dose of anesthesia, he looked around. Tugging at the ropes that held him securely in the chair; he noticed that he was gagged. The once clean dress shirt he proudly wore was now blood stained from a large wound on the back of his head. Dirt accompanied the blood—someone or something had dragged him across the floor. After getting oriented to his new and odd surroundings, panic set in. What had happened to him? What did he do? Why is he here? Exactly _where_ was he? Lawrence looked around at the large and dimly-lit room. Small candles provided light, though a large chandelier hung highly above the floor. It was a basement he decided. Not being able to actually move around, he painfully pivoted his head in an attempt to get a better view of the room. Though he couldn't see much, his fear seemed to die away as he was overtaken by pure astonishment of the little he could see. That astonishment quickly faded.

The smell, which could only be described as that of old, rotting meat, filled the room. Due to the light, he couldn't see the blood-caked walls or the other horrendous things littering the room. The man noticed a large metal door directly in front of him on the opposite side of the room. Though he couldn't even begin to imagine the horrors that awaited him, he knew that whatever would come from the other side of that door couldn't be good. Within minutes, he felt shivers crawl up through back. Then, a softsound cut through the echo of his deep breathing.

Keys jingled from the other side of the door. Faintly.

Lawrence cringed at the sound, and as though realizinghe was in danger, his body tensed, his breathing shortened, and he tried as best as he could to mentally prepare himself for the worst; though he couldn't even begin to dream of the hell that would soon enter the room. The sound of a key turning and the lock opening resonated throughout the entire basement. Then, a moment of silence—the last of Lawrence's life. As suddenas the sound disappeared, came the loud bang of the large metal door being flung open then spamming on the wall behind it. A tall figure stood silhouetted against a dark yellow back light. Stairs arose behind the figure which looked very thin and almost nonhuman in the lighting. Slowly, it walked in.

The figure shut and locked the door behind it, tossing the key chain on a nearby table. Lawrence clenched his teeth at the sound of the keys falling on the metal surface. The room was still far too dark for Lawrence to see who the person was. The light that once illuminated the room from the staircase was now gone, and nothing but darkness was once again with Lawrence. Nevertheless, he could still make out the general shape and movement of the figure. Closer and closer it inched its way towards Lawrence, walking in odd, almost grotesque strides. It flipped a switch and the room was suddenly flooded with light.

Terror.

Pure and utter terror filled Lawrence as he finally got a good look at his surroundings. The blood seemed to cover every other inch of the room. The new-found light seemed to affect the dry bits of blood, splattered on the ceiling, as small fragments began to lightly fall down towards the floor. Almost like snow, it was an odd sight. Lawrence jerked his neck to the left and finally learned where the awful smell was coming from. On what appeared to be a surgical table on the far end of the room, was a body. Not just a regular body, but that of a dead man. His wrists and ankles were bound to each corner of the table. The man's body was stripped completely naked with a small array of bloody surgical tools lying on the table beside it. This was enough to completely bring Lawrence back into a panic, but then he realized the worst: the man's body was completely ripped open and his flesh has become a tinted purple- pink color. His body was putrefied; even at a distance, he could see the movements of fat white grubs eating away at the flesh. The man's face was unrecognizable; the body was obviously there for some time. The face, along with the rest of the body, seemed to be bloated. The back of the man's head was also missing; Lawrence could only assume the worst for how that happened. Turning back forward, he found himself fact to face with the person who had brought him to that hell. The man stood sternly in front of Lawrence. He was quite pale, even in the light. Lawrence could only assume he was in his early twenties; surely not a day over twenty-three. His striking black hair was in complete contrast with his skin tone; slightly curly bangs covered part of his face which held a pair of piercing blue eyes. He stood in front of Lawrence wearing a black t-shirt with a large yellow smiley face decorating the front and center. A set of chains were draped on the sides of his matching black jeans. Boots completed the matching outfit. On his hands, the man wore a pair of medical gloves and covering his mouth and nose he wore what looked like a white surgical mask. He looked down at the cowering Lawrence.

"Why, hello there," he said in a calm low voice, "I'm glad to see you're finally awake." Lawrence struggled to get out of the restraints, he mumbled through the gag. "You see," continued the man, "I was starting to worry about you. Normally people don't react so violently to anesthesia, but it seemed as if you were going to die." He cocked his head. "I need live samples to work with, so thank you for staying alive for me." His voice was emotionless, cold. Lawrence yelled into the gag, which was soaked in spit and sweat by this point. He kept trying to get out of the restraints, but they remained tight.  
The man reached towards Lawrence; he flinched, thinking the man was going to hurt him. Instead, he undid the gag.

"Better?" The calmness in his voice was eerie. It was obvious that he didn't truly care for his comfort.

"Where the fuck am I?" Lawrence yelled, attempting to lunge forward at the man. "Who are you? Why am I here?"

"Mr. Coran," the man began quietly, "please save yourself a bit of discomfort and refrain from being so... loud." He emphasized each word; it seemed to poison the air around them. It was strange; simply the way the words flowed from his lips filled Lawrence with a sense of complete fear and unease.

His pulse quickened, he was undeterred. "Let me go! How do you know who I am?" Lawrence yelled rebelliously. Angrily.

The man simply stared at Lawrence as he attempted to put on a strong, fearless face. Slowly, the man put his hand up to his face before pulling down the surgical mask. It was strange, seeing the man's face. Everything seemed perfectly proportioned; his eyes, his nose, his lips and cheeks. Like a stunning painting from a Renaissance master; he looked so fragile, so beautiful, yet when he spoke, nothing but a monster was all that Lawrence could think of and see. The man's lips slightly curled and his head tilted a bit; he looked so normal, so innocent. "I'm only going to ask you one more time... please, be quiet." Lawrence continued to struggle; cursing angrily, something inside of him knew this may very well be the end. There didn't seem to be any reason to think otherwise. Besides, seeing a bloated rotting body casually strapped to a table definitely wasn't any comfort to him. The man stared blankly at Lawrence, thinking, before letting out a short and quiet sigh. "There are many rules which will contribute to your survival," he stopped again, thinking. "However, you just broke the biggest one," he added, completely monotone. He reapplied the gag as Lawrence yelled and struggled at his touch. Sweat dribbled down Lawrence's face when he realized something completely out of the blue. The smell of dead flowers; unlike the air around him, the man reeked of dead and dying flowers. The aroma was pungent yet there was an unmistakable sweetness to it. It was far better than the smell of the cadaver. This man looked nothing like a murderer; Lawrence could pass as his father, the age was perfect. "Silence is golden," he said, a bit of charm in his voice. This snapped Lawrence back to reality. "You see Mr. Coran," he continued, carefully, thinking each word out in his head, "I have extremely low tolerance for people who are loud. Noise in general irritates me, let alone the cries and sad, sad screams of a full grown man. Pathetic."

He grinned, looking less human and more animalistic. Reaching into his pocket, the man pulled out a wallet. Lawrence's wallet. Flipping through the many cards inside, he pulled out his driver's license. "This should answer your question." he said, a hint of arrogance sprinkled on top. "Now Mr. Coran, please tell me something… do you know why you're here?" Lawrence shook his head. "Wellyou see," he continued, "I've been watching you. I've been studying the human being known as Steven Owen Coran. And you know what?" The man's voice emptied, "It sickens me."

He around and headed towards a table near the far end of the room. Shiny objects decorated it; knives, scissors, scalpels. He picked up a large meat cleaver before turning back around towards Lawrence. He ran a finger across the blade's edge—careful to not cut his gloves—testing its sharpness. Lawrence gulped hard at the sight. Feeling content with his decision, he walked back to the strapped man. "So you don't seem to know why you're here then," he said casually, still getting closer "well allow me to rephrase the question then." He now stood in front of Lawrence again. "Do you know what a pedophile is?"

Lawrence's eyes shot open as he looked up at the man in complete shock and disbelief.

The man smiled. "A pedophile is a person who gets sexual satisfaction from young children. Not college kids, not even teenagers, but little kids. Itsy-bitsy kids who are defenseless against creatures like you. During my studies, I learned what kind of person you are. I learned how low you're willing to go to get a little bit of satisfaction." He put the cleaver up to Lawrence's throat. He jerked his head back, fearing being cut. "You know Mr. Coran, fucking _your_ own children is generally frowned upon." The man chuckled as the fear oozed from his victim. By now, Lawrence drooped his head; he'd been caught, but how? Who is this man? How did he know?

Positioning the cleaver beneath Lawrence's chin, he forced his head up. The man lunged forward, one hand holding the large knife, the other clutching the side of Lawrence's head. He pulled his head closer to his own; merely inches away from the madman's face, Lawrence was forced to look at him. Insanity, joy, anger, hate, and confusion seemed to fill the icy blue eyes that were piercing into Lawrence's very soul. The man lurched his head to the side, still looking directly at Lawrence.

"Look at me when I am talking," he roared angrily. The man's calm personality and demeanor changed in a snap. "Do you enjoy fucking them?" He asked sarcastically. Being this close to the man, Lawrence noticed that he was giving off a sense of coldness. Literally, he felt cold being so close to him. Even his breath made the hairs on Lawrence's neck stand up. When Lawrence was a young child, his mother died unexpectedly; this man gave off the same vibe that his mother's dead, cold corpse did during the open casket service. It was nothing less of strange. He suddenly felt a shock of pain run across the side of his face. He's been cut.

Still gagged, Lawrence yelled in agony as the man slowly ran the cleaver across his face. Starting from the left side of his neck, the knife slowly made its way up to his cheek, across his forehead, down onto his right cheek and all the way down to his clavicle on the right side of his body. The cut was deep and clean. The man giggled the whole time, like a child who was tearing the legs off of helpless ants. He was enjoying every second of it and he made it very obvious. "Do you enjoy watching them in pain?" he asked, still grinning. "Hmm, do you? Do you feel more secure and accomplished each and every time they please you? It's so ironic, police officers like _yourself_ are suppose to protect people, not hurt them." Lawrence realized something then: he was still wearing part of his police uniform! Tears ran down his face, stinging the cuts. "Aww," the man cooed mockingly, "Does this hurt you? Are you scared? Maybe I should just let you go. You poor, poor little thing!" He laughed maniacally, enjoying the reaction he was receiving from Lawrence. "Did your children cry when you raped them? Did they beg you to stop? Maybe I should stick this cleaver up your little ass to simulate the experience you're kids went through." Lawrence yelled and yelled in desperation. "Shut up," the man commanded. Lawrence knew better by now, but he couldn't control himself anymore. He was panicked and continued yelling through the gag. The smile on the man's face disappeared. "Shut up!" he yelled, "Shut your fucking mouth or I'll skin you alive! I'll fucking have you begging for death by the time I'm done with you!" He slashed the cleaver across Lawrence's face, dealing major damage. The blow, along with the sudden large amount of blood loss, left Lawrence in a state of shock. He was quiet now. Slightly convulsing, but quiet. His right eye dangled out of the socket, held on only by a small fragment of flesh. His nose was sliced in two horizontally. Any lower and it would have been a perfect first step to achieving a chelsea grin. Luckily, those were only reserved for special subjects.

The man glanced over at a large clock hanging above the room's entrance; it was getting late. He sighed in disappointment. "Well, Mr. Coran," he began, "I think that it's about time we went our separate ways. To be perfectly honest, I don't think you're worth wasting my time on any longer." His bloody hand carefully pulled the surgical mask back up on his face. Shaking his head, he moved the hair from the front of his face before addressing Lawrence. "My entire life, I've been attempting to find out what makes creatures like you. Are you born monsters? Do you learn it? Why? How? I want to know what makes people like you so _broken_." He pointed to the bloated corpse on another table, "See him? He was broken. I found him and gave his pathetic life meaning, he became one of my many test subjects. I think I was close to figuring out why people like him and you exist, but I couldn't." His demeanor changed again. The man's insanity spewed out. "Fuck!" he yelled angrily, "I was so close! I know I was, but I just couldn't figure it out! Why? Day after day, month after month, year after year I slave here trying to find answers!" He glared at Lawrence, "The world is filled with broken people like you. Broken people who are in desperate need of being fixed!" Lawrence was slightly more conscience now as he jerked at the restraints. This isn't the end, it couldn't be. "I can't find the answers!" the man repeated psychotically, "I can't! Why? Tell me Mr. Coran! Tell me there is a reason for monsters like you! Tell me I can find it and I can keep people from being hurt by them!" He clutched the knife. Shaking violently, he lifted his arm up. Lawrence's body tensed as the knife flew down on him. Going into the side of his neck, the blow nearly sliced completely through. Blood splattered up on the man. His black clothing was now stained red; the yellow smiley face on his t-shirt was barely visible. He was breathing hard now. He stared at the Lawrence's body and laughed at the sight. His head was no longer on his neck as much as it was hanging on the side of his body, connected only by a bit of skin. Using the cleaver, he pushed the head back as the skin snapped, the head landing on the floor below. The man stepped back. After a few minutes of simply standing and staring at the body, he'd caught his breath and was setting the knife on a table.

Propping himself on a counter top he thought. "He's there, the body is still good, I have a little bit of time… but I don't know about doing another one tonight…" his voice trailed off. Lawrence wasn't the first victim on the night. There had been two others before him, both of which took a toll on the man. He was tired, hungry, and would rather be in a hot shower instead of dissecting Lawrence's corpse.

It was his ritual. Find them, study them from afar, catch them, kill them, and take them apart. He didn't have a problem with finding, studying, killing, and dissecting. It was catching that took the most energy. The bigger the catch, the more energy required to take them down and bring them back to the testing room. Besides, he had dissected the other two; it was enough for one night.  
Some time passed, he thought more.

"… no," he mumbled to himself, "next time I'll carry it all out." He hopped off the counter and walked towards a large structure built in the side of a wall. Beside it was an array of buttons and switches, one of which he flipped, illuminating the inside of the structure. A glass window on the door of the structure allowed him to see the inside; it was a small cremation oven. He then proceeded to get Lawrence's body inside. After releasing the body from the chair, he drug it across the room towards the oven, talking while doing so. "You know," he said nonchalantly to the body, "most people who kill think that the simplest way to get rid of the body is to burn it. It's actually very true, but it's far easier said than done." He grunted, pulling the heavy man's body. "But, most just dump gasoline on the corpse and light it up, thinking that'll do the trick." He stopped took a deep breath. "They're wro-ng!" he sang. He let go of the body, breathing hard and resting for a moment. "Most fires simply lit burn to about 900 degrees," he continued, "people need almost 2,000 degrees to turn to dust." He clutched the body by the legs and started again. He never understood why he talked to the dead bodies. Each and every time, he found himself talking to them. He assumed it was because the job got extremely lonely. Besides, talking kept his mind off what he had done.

Once he reached the kiln, he flipped another switch and the large door opened as flames roared inside sending a large wave of heat bursting out. Carefully, he shoved the body in as far as he could, then, using a long pole, he pushed it further into the fl ames before shutting the door. He grinned while looking through the window. "You're heating up my house today, and you'll make perfect fertilizer for my garden tomorrow."

With that, he left the room and headed upstairs. The door at the top of the staircase opened and he stepped into a closet. He'd built it himself in order to hide the door leading to the basement. He exited the small closet and walked through a large, yet cozy, living room. Vases of flowers littered a table; the dying flowers drooped while the dead ones shriveled up and fell apart. Large paintings framed the walls which were painted a golden-tan color. The wooden floor creaked below him as he walked across, trying carefully not to leave blood everywhere. A large spiral staircase was adjacent to the living room. He made his way up to the upper floor. A large corridor met him as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. Using it, he opened an old style wooden door which led him to his bedroom.

"I'll be there soon," he thought to himself as he stared at a large bed. Again, very comfortable looking; plaid blue and black sheets decorated it while dark blue pillows were tossed casually near the head area. He carefully opened a drawer and took out clean clothing and a towel before heading to the bathroom. He greedily showered for nearly an hour before stepping out, redressing, and heading back towards his room. His dirty clothing soaked in a sink; he'd wash it tomorrow. The man sighed deeply before dropping on his bed like a rock. Reaching beneath a pillow, he grabbed a bottle of ambien. "Another night," he whispered to himself as he tossed a small handful of pills into his mouth, "Lleh, you told yourself you wouldn't do this anymore… so why can't I stop?"

The morning sun was beginning to shine through the curtains as he dozed off. It was nothing but another night to Lleh. The blood, the gore; none of it bothered him anymore. School was starting in just a few hours. His secret life was safe for another day; he knew it would all be over someday, so he did as much as he could while he could. Birds chirped outside and the sounds of life waking up filled the air.

The End

**(Whoa this is long! Congrats on surviving... I'm not sure if people on here like longer stories [like this one] or stories a bit more short. Let me know for future chapters, please.)**


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